


Come And Sail The Seven Seas (Virginia Company!)

by NosyFrenchie



Series: Disney? More like dis di- [2]
Category: Pocahontas (1995)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, crack ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NosyFrenchie/pseuds/NosyFrenchie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You intrigue him, he wants to know how you could be even remotely involved in his future. What are the spirits trying to show him about the white demon?</p><p>You? You simply want to get away from the savage who abducted you and try to not come apart at the seams whilst doing so.</p><p>Previously known as Millefeuille</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New World And The Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have something for non popular ships.  
> The idea came to me when I saw a Kocoum gif. Damn, I never realised he was so... yum.
> 
> SO BIG LIFE UPDATE  
> I failed hard my exam but got accepted in Paris X in a similar course so it's cool and I am not dead  
> Believe it or not, I actually wrote a lot for this ship but it's either some AUs (modern or 1960-70's) or some snippets of this story. And I really can't believe you guys actually kept up with this??? Like I would have given up on myself if I were you???
> 
> oh right, the beginning is off and I hate but what can I do?
> 
>  
> 
> What do you mean 'be a good writer'?

You hated his rough hands, his smile and manners full of sleaze and his posture of faux bonne aisance. The mere thought of him would send your stomach reeling and your hands fidgeting.

Disgust bubbles in your guts whenever you hear his name, feel his touch and rage is always a slow simmer when he approaches you.

 

Smith had felt the same way, had confessed that more than once in the lower decks to whoever would listen and in the makeshift infirmary where he knew for a fact the doctor and you could be found.

Somehow, he understood you couldn't bear the thought of Ratcliffe near you.

 

Of course, he was no better.

 

He talked, oh, he talked. He denounced Ratcliffe's actions, his fake promises and such but mutiny was not the way. Before he could scrounge up what was left of his brain cells and put together a solid plan to get rid of Ratcliffe and his little right hand man, he was dragged, kicking and swearing to the lowest deck of the ship. In normal times, his meager possessions and half of his portions would be left for grabs but Smith (or Captain Smith as the men liked to call him) was granted more liberties and simply less work than an usual prisoner.

 

“Our contractor holds him in high regard, sir.” You carefully began, eyeing the annoyed tilt of the governor's head. “Despite his quick wit and brash words, he must remain unharmed.”

 

“I know how he is perceived, you little fool!” The man snarls at you from his seat behind the desk. “He is a far too important asset for me to call for his execution. “

 

“And morale is so low!” Quips his valet, eyes fixated on the sour man.

You do not hate Wiggins, you could most likely turn a blind eye to his eccentricities in a different setting but the careless way he throws himself around the governor and sneers at the rest of the crew makes it harder and harder for you to consider him a friend.

His small emaciated figure makes you wonder how the man ever survived those first two months towards the colonies and how he will survive once face to face with their harshness.

At first you had not comprehended why Ratcliffe would pick such a spineless secretary but it all soon dawned on you when you first saw the latter bleary eyed and red faced when he exited the other man's chamber.

 

He was not a man to Ratcliffe, he was one of his _boys._

 

You had grown used to your parent's tendencies overtime, had been exposed to them far too many times to feel rebuked or disgusted. You suspected Wiggins was his only male source of entertainment at the time due to the voyage…

What irked you was Ratcliffe's insatiable hunger.

 

Ratcliffe needed more than one boy.

 

Your mind went back to the girls shivering in the cold, rubbing their translucent skin to gain warmth waiting for their next clients in the dark alleys of your district and to the women with ashed and bruised faces giggling over their collected gold and silver coins.

 

Yes, those women, those children and their line of 'work' plagued your mind whenever a rough and fat hand grasped your hair in a tight fist and forced you on your knees. When hot shame flooded your mouth and left you gagging.

 

_Their hunched figures, as one or two break down into a coughing fit..._

 

You thought of those cursed women every time he would push for more and you saw yourself rolled onto your back, waiting for the odious man to be done with you and send you on your way.

 

_Their smudged lipstick as red their hair, runny khôl as dark as the depths of the Thames…_

 

During all those cruel machinations, you also kept a steel nerve and kept in mind the reason you allowed his hands on your bare skin.

 

 

_Tout l'or de Cortez, l'argent de Pizarro ne seront que fadaises demain pour les héros et feront grise mine comparés à l'or, l'or qui dort dans ces mines d'or. Déterrons le trésor!_

 

 

With enough gold, you would be free from the cold and hostile English districts, free from the dark and austere sky and sickly air that permeates the filthiest streets of London.

With enough gold, you could buy your way up, purchase any nobility titles you require, you could peacefully settle and stay independent of a man, study and travel to your heart's whim. Perhaps settle in the North of Italy or the South of France and retire rested, happy and alone.

 

With enough gold, you could change your life for the better and live behind this… parent of yours.

 

What were you to Ratcliffe but a disposable body?

You were a distant parent, the daughter of a cousin thrice removed who had lost her parents at a tragically young age. Left to the church, you had grown with a minor title of nobility and meager dowry that dwindled as your needs grew with your age.

This distant relative had chosen to take you in after years of reluctance after the situation caught the attention of a man of higher rank. One with a severe lack of heirs despite his old name who lamented on wasted potential.

You had been but fourteen of age when Sir John Ratcliffe of Lancashire walked into your life. First, the conversation was affable and smooth. He talked about a father you had no memory of -and you suspected he also knew very little of him- and offered his condolences. He appeared distinguished despite his foppish appearance and proved to be a delight around the nuns.

 

After introductions were over with, the matriarch left to fetch the solicitor who was in charge of your papers and dowry.

 

That is when he made his first move.

 

“ _Let me make myself quite clear.” The words were spoken in a harsh biting tone, the grip on your arm that brought up you to his height was hard and punishing. “I shall not have my reputation sullied by one as worthless as you.”_

 

_Perhaps you should have held your tongue, chewed the words floating around in your head or altogether refrained from interjecting but you had not been so forcefully pushed towards your 'uncle' during all these years without a reason : you were far too comfortable with shooting off at the mouth._

“ _I am not worthless.” You answered, your sudden bravado evaporating in thin air when you caught sight of the slightest twitch of his fingers in your peripheral vision._

 

_You_ despised _being beaten._

 

“ _I can be useful, sir.” You shot out, feeling encouraged at the sag noticeable in his shoulders. “Of all the students, I am the best in academics, the fastest learner, I have a way with biology. I would never tarnish your high reputation, sir.” He remained silent as a tomb, small dark eyes staring you down. He was waiting for more._

 

“ _Lend me any material you wish, push me in any direction, I will never waver.”_

 

_Intrigued -as the sudden interest in his eyes indicates-, his grip relaxes and you do not dare even sigh as the blood flows back to your fingers. “Never?”_

 

 

 

You are deep in the bowels of the ship, just above the holding cell where Smith is most likely sulking when the cries of the lookout reach you. The men rush to the upper deck and encourage you to follow them.

You distractedly nod, muttering a soft “Right behind you”. They pass by you, their buzzing excitement far from contagious and rendering you more nervous than anything. A few pat you on the back encouragingly.

The last few who have taken a more composed and relaxed attitude, walk to follow. Tentatively pausing, one inquires, “What about the captain? He'd wanna see the land.”

 

“If you want to get Ratcliffe on your ass, you're more than welcome, mate!” One shoots and the whole group snickers and you are already making your way to the cells before you can think the entire thing through.

 

“Doctor!” The blond man is clutching at the iron bars, eyes twinkling, “I heard we reached shore, I knew we would find the Americas soon.” You had not made a habit of coming down to entertain the famous explorer and veteran, if only for an occasional medical visit and when the crew urged you on.

 

“We did.” You say, standoffish. “I thought you could use the view.”

 

“You're breaking me out? I know a governor who would be none too happy about this development.” He says, watching as you cycle his cell to fetch the keys.

 

“Smith, we both know that letter from our contractor will pardon your previous… actions no matter what.” You watch demurely as a smirk stretch on the man's thin lips.

 

“I am quite the character.” You throw him the keys without looking back. They land somewhere near his feet and he nearly throws himself at them.

 

“This conversation never happened, Captain.”

 

“Aye!” The key jingles in the lock but you are already climbing the steps to the upper deck when Smith slithers out.

 

As predicted, the letter names Smith as captain of the settlement, directly working under Ratcliffe's orders. The three ships are not even fully docked when Smith strides in his shining armor. Ratcliffe bristles at the sight and more or less sends him away to explore as soon as possible.

Distracted by the new landscape and his preparations of unloading, he sends you away with a wave of his hand and you gladly use the time to sketch a rudimentary map of the shoreline.

You are so engrossed in your quick draft that you nearly cry out when a voice speaks out right over your shoulder.

 

“Impressive.” Smith laughs at loud at your reaction, “Had I known you were so twitchy-”

 

“You would have done nothing as you were kept locked away for the last two months.” You cut him off dryly, shoving your map in your satchel as you hastily get up.

 

“Now doctor,” He puts his hands up in surrender, his blond hair sliding out from beneath his cask. “I meant no harm.” He scans the surroundings with a keen eye, “But someone else could. I would recommend not straying too far from Jamestown for the time being.”

 

“The Indians would never attack this close to the settlement.” You point out

He frowns, eyes still lost in the greenery. “Doctor, if I have learned a single thing about the savages is that they are wayward and dangerous. One day they extend you a hand to help you up and the next they collect your shrunken head and wear it as a trophy.”

 

After a moment of fruitless silent, you wondering about the veracity of this new information and him inspecting the surroundings and crashing through various bushes -making such a racket, you're positive he scared almost everything in the near vicinity-, you speak up. Unbeknownst to the both of you, under the unrelenting stares of the so-called savages.

“As I said, I rest assured sure those savages won't cause me any trouble this near to Jamestown.” He turns back to you, sighing in surrender. Sensing an oncoming interjection, you add in dismissal “Smith.”

 

“Doctor.”

He leaves, defeated and you sit back down. You dispose of your bag and deeply sigh as silence falls down around you. Of course there is a distant hum coming from the shore but otherwise, the scene is quiet. A few birds chirp and let out long whistles in the vicinity, insects buzzing in unison.

You are about to record a nice white flower in your tome when a heart stopping sound explodes from the shore.

You get up bolt upright just as the distant cry of “Doctor! We need a doctor!” echoes in the settlement and carries to you.

The familiar cry starts you into a run back to the camp. Your shirt's sleeve gets snagged on a branch and in your hurry, you disregard it and ignore the tear it causes in the heavy fabric.  
Numerous settlers round the man currently nursing his bleeding arm and rolling around in pain in the sand and dirt. A quick explanation from a stuttering soldier informs you of the incident. The young man stumbles on his words and talks with his hands, nearly gauging out your eye with his non groomed finger nails.

 

“He was shot, doctor! The gun simply went off!”

 

You send him away as the two other doctors from the ships finally approach. The taller one calls for two men come to pin him down while you prepare your medical tools. No time to light a fire, you will have to manage the infection as best as possible.  
The operation is nasty and sloppy. The man thrashes about and blood keeps pouring out of the wound, your colleague is unable to stop the flow as he cannot find the vein and you end up dismissing him rudely.

You startle when Wiggins falls to your left, his face a sickly white. As if this was the best moment to pass out – and there is Governor Ratcliffe, blocking your only light source as he looms over you and laments about the waste of precious sunlight and ammunition.

  


You never told yourself fortune would come easy in the new world.

  


You never expected the latter to remind you so much of home however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, please, give me the strength to continue and not disappear in the wild AGAIN


	2. Pause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting so many hits on this first chapter but since you seem to like that...
> 
> CHAPTER TWOOOOOOOOOOO

The Quiocosin is silent expect for Kekata's chanting and the small hushes and low voices coming from outside. Most of the villagers are huddled right outside of the Shaman's house, chatting away over the recent news.  
One of the proud warriors has been stricken down by the invaders , mere days after their victory on the Massawomecks, relentless raiders of the north. Yes, Namontack! How? What do you mean you don't know? He was not even stricken down by the whites!

Now that the Shaman looks down helplessly at the fallen brave, the men inside start to converse and argue between one another.

One voice rises above all the others, "The pale face healed one whom suffered of this illness. It could probably do it again!"  
This breaks Kocoum from his thoughts. Namontack is clearly in great pain, clutching at the fur as the shaman is powerlessly observing the wound. The diseased grits his teeth and takes in deep breaths of air, unsuccessfully trying to ease the pain. The alien projectile is lodged deep into his flesh, invisible to their eyes.

Another retorts, grasp tightening on his spear "This healer is also a pale face! Who's to say he won't kill him!?"  
Namontack grunts, either in agreement or in pain but Kocoum stays put, incapable of helping his friend. Wahunsenacawh is silent, he too watches as one of his loyal warriors suffers from the strange ill inflicted by the unknown invaders. A grave expression crosses his face and he turns away from Namontack and to the warriors closest to him, "Find the healer and bring him here." He finally says and as Kocoum and the three other warriors are heading out under the curious and inquiring looks of the crowd, he adds: "We need him unharmed."

That is a promise he is not sure he can keep.

  


  


It took hours to find the white healer.  
The man is slippery as an eel, cannot be sighted in the whites' camp or even in the woods surrounding the shore. One suggests he could be in one of those strange white houses lined by the edge of the wood but Kocoum deems it far too risky, the men are now patrolling the area. As blind as they are, they do not notice them but he still worries about the ugly mutt that gave them away in the first place. They sneak around the new settlement for half a hour but when the person of interest fails to show up, it is time to split up. Kocoum takes one man to accompany him into the forest and orders the other two to stay put here, in case the wanted man ever comes back. They will head back to the village at sunset if none found him.

The other warrior in tow, they wandered awhile before splitting up, him to the north and the second to the south. Usually cool-headed, he slowly loses his focus the more time flies by and the bright sun dulls into a soft orange. The emergency at hand is too great, he cannot allow himself to waste any-

And there you are.

He is at the same time relieved and unpleasantly surprised when he finally finds you near Grandmother Willow. You sit there, a thick object in your hands while chancing looks at the massive willow. The great spirit doesn't seem to find your presence disagreeable as she doesn't chase you away but does not present herself to you either.

But another thing catches his eye - your hair is down now. The locks of hair spill freely down your shoulders and on your chest which doesn't seem so flat and toned anymore. And suddenly, the white demon loses the appearance of an awkward teenage male coming into age and adopts the one of a young girl slowly blossoming into a woman.

  


 

Stunned by this realization, Kocoum stops dead in his tracks.  
He was a warrior, he had already killed many, slaughtered the Massawomecks and destroyed what was left of the raiders' village with his fellow braves by his side.  
By the spirits, did he pester the young squaws when he was younger but he seemed way too put off by the fact he had to capture you. As an ignorant pale face (and by extension a woman), you would surely run off or scream in fright, incurring the wrath of Grandmother Willow for breaking the reigning peace, scaring the wildlife away and possibly alerting the white demons who could be nearby for all he knew.

This is why he decides to proceed swiftly.  
Back in his earlier springs, he would have jumped on his target and -unsuccessfully- pinned it down before ending it. But now he had to weight his options carefully.  
If he came headstrong, he would doubtlessly hurt you and an injured healer wouldn't be too useful.  
The second and last option was stealth.  
A rapid observation of the clearing makes him know there is absolutely no way he could sneak up behind you without you hearing or seeing him. The only solution is to attract you away.

...

You jerk upright, hitting your head against the tree trunk behind you, hissing as pain flares in the back of your head. You maneuver a hand to assure there's no bleeding before looking around in fear. Small beams of sunlight stream through the leaves of the tree, momentarily blinding you and as you get up, you hear the noise again, a thump somewhere in the bushes and your eyes land on your left. The noise seems to be closer this time.

"Smith?" You ask before quickly putting on your beret, gathering the locks inside. You pin them as best as you can. "Smith, I know you posses a rather drab sense of humor but this is far from funny." He is the only man of the whole settlement to be brave enough to wander this far into the woods, it is the only logical option.

But there's no answer from the man or anyone for that matter. Nothing occurs, even the wind stills.

...

Kocoum stays motionless, observing from afar the woman as she turns in small circles, speaking away in her alien tongue. Only one word seems familiar, the same she addressed the man with the hair the same color as corn. Is she truly expecting him?  
She stops and turns to where he had thrown the pebbles, scanning her surroundings.  
He waits until she has her back to him before standing slowly, silently approaching the creature from behind. One strong blow to the back of the head is all it takes – her frame seems to waver for a second before the shock leaves her crumpled on the forest floor.

The wind suddenly picks up, filtering between the long leaves of the willow and swirling around him. It slides over her form, engulfing itself in the strange clothing. He must have stood there for a while, listening to the whispers of the wind and staring at your unconscious form before he snaps out of his reverie.

It is nearly sunset.

He crouches down near the knocked out being, he makes sure her wrists are restrained before draping her over his shoulder. The piece of cloth nearly falls off her head and he can feel the fallen strands on his bare back as he rises. It looks amiss and he takes much more time than he would admit to completely get if off her hair.

Once again over his shoulder, she weighs a little heavier than expected and Kocoum takes time to decide where he should put his hands but eventually he is walking away from the clearing, a drooling female in tow.

The spirits have spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUN
> 
> But that's not much of a surprise... I mean it's written in the description.


	3. Mais qui va là!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That gotta hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NFG FOUND HER USB FLASH DRIVE = HAPPINESS = MORE CHAPTERS
> 
> By the way, Thank you Bloomdumbass and Nik for leaving a comment! This chapter goes straight to you two!

When you come to, everything's blurry and your throat is too parched to emit a single sound. You can distinguish the familiar sound of the forest, even feel yourself moving and hear the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Slowly, the pain in your chest due to its prolonged binding and the strain in your arms as they are held behind you at an awkward slip at the forefront of your mind and you finally groan in discomfort and aggravation.  
Your vision stabilizes and there is a copper colored stretch of skin staring back at you. It is easy to say so : you have years of medical training behind you and hazy mind or no, this is a back. But, you muse, it is not covered by a shirt or a vest.

No, this one is naked.

And now that the thought grazes your mind, soldiers from the Virginia always wear clothes and, sunburned or no, they could never posses such an exotic skin color. You also never saw one of them wear fur.  
And didn't Wiggins tell you about the savages? You remember him whispering in fright when the night got dark, “Those men would lop our heads off and cook us at supper if they got the chance!”

And Smith - ever so reassuring – never missed out on the chance to tell about the savages he came across, the ones so dark they seemed to be made out of mud. So basically, you are staring a naked, mud colored back. And by extension, the one of an inju, the ones you are supposed to stay away from.

 

Panic rises in a heartbeat and without thinking, you try and push your chest away as hard as you can to put some distance between the back of the man holding you captive and yourself. But being twice as big as you and determined to keep you on his shoulder, he tightens his grip and you -really- think your spine is getting crushed.

He barks something at you, your mind is still too sleepy to comprehend, and you turn to look over your shoulder. A cloud of black hairs falls in your eyes, and you try to bat it away the best you can without the use of your hands. A few seconds pass in horrified and muted silence, before your mind clears and you attempt to react accordingly.

You jerk your knee back and lend a blow right into his solar plexus. Visibly surprised by the move, his hold falters. You end up falling flat on your back and tied hands in the struggle. He takes a few steps back as he clutches his midriff. His face contorts in obvious pain.

You succeed in rolling over and get to your knees before he has his hands on you once more. The feeling of being pushed down onto the ground and having your hips stilled is too familiar for you not to panic. Like a well oiled machine, you kick and yell into the ground. Someone is bound to hear your complaint.  
Your face colors at the crude language you use, but really what can you do in this situation? Crying seems like a good option, but you doubt the tears will even graze the savage's heart and you still have some dignity, darn it!

You now have to take deep breaths to calm yourself down and when you inhale is the time he chooses to push down onto your back and block your breathing. Struggling is futile, you realize, you can't even turn over. His palms fan out over your ribs, pushing down harder and harder until only a pitiful chocking sound leaves you.

Gasping into the forest floor, your vision blurs and blood fills your head with blood. Heavy and breathless, you cannot find the strength to fight anymore.

You can faintly hear the man talking above you before your mind slips into darkness.


	4. Of Salt And Rust

During the time you fought against your captor and subsequently lost consciousness - you hope you are not suffering from a concussion - a lot must have happened because you wake up by being jolted around. You are surrounded by red skinned people who look at you with fear and confusion. However, you do not have much time to take everything in before you are being pushed and dragged forward by two unknown men.

They eventually force you onto your knees in the middle of the assembly as a tall man in imposing attire and surrounded by a peculiar air walks towards you. The people split like the Red Sea around him, you suppose he must have a great influence for him to be able to cause such a behavior.

 

You stare up at the giant of a man as he approaches. They dig in the dirt path along with the toes of your boots and you strain your neck to maintain his gaze. Then the spear previously held at his side comes into view. The sharp point of the chipped stone lowers to your face before it grazes the skin of your neck.

The voice of what appears to be the chief is just as grave as solemn as he looks. His dark eyes catch yours as he scrutinizes you. "Invader, you were brought here for a reason."

 

Swallowing, you take deep breaths in and try to put as much distance between the weapon and yourself. Without thinking about how his words make any kind of sense, you respond. "I sure hope so."

 

The man behind you applies more pressure to your shoulders, and a gasp escapes you as pain flares in your collarbones. A snap from someone around you makes him lighten his grip only slightly but the sudden objection makes you realize something. They speak in a language you never heard before but you can clearly understand the whispers of the villagers around you, the interjections of the inju behind you and the sentence of the chief standing before you.

 

Your eyes widen, this time not in horror but in incomprehension.

“How...”

The spear directly press against the underside of your chin, nicking at the skin there. The chief levels you with a glare, "You are in no position to talk back.”

 

…

 

This is basically how you find yourself in front of man, nursing a nasty gunshot wound. It doesn't look infected but it is definitely swollen with the bullet resting in the flesh.

"Seems like the bullet missed the femur but the wound is already closing."

You murmur, probing the wound. The man grunts in pain but seems less agitated than before. You press the sides around the wound, “I will have to re-open his thigh to extract it.”

You release him and his chest falls with a deep exhale, he must be as resistant as he looks for not passing out. You have seen bigger men cry and scream aboard the ship when you only cleaned a wound and this strange man is taking it like a mere thorn stuck in his foot. Impressive, really.

 

"That is nice and all" You start, turning to the crowd quickly growing behind you. "but I cannot do anything without my tools."

The silence that follows your sentence baffles you. "Is something wrong?"

After being almost impaled by the spear of the chief of the village and dragged into a house, you realize the... man may have brought you to the wanted destination but left your satchel in the woods. When you try to explain, you only receive blank stares and another realization dawns upon you.

 

You understand whatever language they speak but it is not reciprocal.

 

“Dear mother of God.”

 

Just like the soldier back on the shore, the injured man trashes around but his brothers in arms do a phenomenally better job at holding him down. Particularly one -you recognize him as the one who dug his fingers into your shoulder- applies enough pressure on the inguinal fold so the fallen warrior doesn't bleed out during the intervention.

The blaze in the midst of the hut lights the wound, the latter has already started closing. However, you have seen worse, you should be able to take care of this.

Taking a deep breath in, you tighten your hold on the rudimentary graven knife as you lower it to the man's calf.

 

You pull out the bullet and on the spur of the moment, hand it to a person on your left. Blood oozes from the wound you just re-opened and you are confronted with the familiar scent of salt and rust. The man has eventually been gagged before he could shred his own lips to hold his screams.

After extracting the bullet, it all becomes easier. The flesh has been cut with a sterilized blade and the wound turned out to be cleaner than expected.

The elderly man you identify as the healer takes your place and applies a salve on the wound and a moss bandage. Surprisingly, the man is still awake. He is not aware by any means at this point; his eyes are glazed over and he doesn't respond when his name is called but he is awake nonetheless.

 

The first man, the one who brought you here stares at you from the other side of where 'Nah-moan-tac' lies and you find the weight of it unbearable. You hadn't realized whilst you took care of the man but everything seemed off now.

Your chest hurt due to its prolonged binding, your head still throbbed in dull pain from the blow and your ribs felt like snapping from the confines of the heavy doublet you wore.

God, you had to get rid of all this.

A hand lands on your shoulder and turns you around. You follow the curve of a firm wrist to its owner and you come up face to face with an unknown man, said man is for the record already leading you to a new location and that's when your fight-or-flight instincts kick in. You swat his hand away immediately, rougher than you probably should have. Your breathing accelerates when he reaches for you once more despite your obvious refusal to go. His grip is stronger this time, almost bruising.

God, you just want to get away from all the ambient atmosphere and the pain.

 

The fabrics of your shirt and doublet cling to your skin, sticking to your skin with the help of accumulated sweat and grime. You had rolled up your long sleeves to your elbows to perform the surgery but still, blood paints the extremities as well as your hands and forearms red. The bandages around your chest seems to want to choke you while your head spins and stomach swirls.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the first man, the one who brought you here, advancing.

 

“Give him the knife.” Black eyes focus on your hand, resting at your side.

You suddenly remember the knife in your hand, its light weight reassuring in a way. Your own knife, sheathed in your boot instantly comes to mind and you relinquish your hold on the blade when a hand extends for it.

The thought of stabbing him rang loudly in your mind but you couldn't bring yourself to harm him and the thought to wrestling with two men does not have much an appeal either.

“Good.”

You send a threatening glare to the first man (at least you hope it looks threatening, with all the blood on your arms, it's got to be a little intimidating), insults sprouting on the tip of your tongue. However, your legs refuse to cooperate and help you with your act and decide to give out from under you.

 

…

 

You wake up, surprised not to find yourself in the middle of the forest. Rather, you find yourself in a small wooden house where a cozy fire burns in its midst.

You look around for a moment, confused before your gaze falls onto someone facing away from you. Long gray hair falls over a clothed back but you can tell the person is an elderly, the form whilst covered in a fur of some sort is undeniably small and lanky, traits that come with age.

On the other side of hut, a nearly naked man lies. He is feverish, beads of sweat roll down his face and neck but he is fast asleep and his breathing regular.

Your eyes drift down and you spot a green colored bandage on his leg.

 

It is hard to recognize his features in the dim light but he should be the one you treated.

Oh.

You're in the savages' territory and you treated one of their own.

 

You groan, pressing a cool hand to your temple. You do not regret helping the man, you regret helping the warrior. He could later become dangerous if he made a full recovery and the way you remember taking care of him is sure to grant him just that. Perhaps you should just paint your hands with the blood of the Virginia Company right away.

You startle when the old man applies a cool hand to your heated forehead. You didn't even notice him moving. He is calm, his features relaxed and hands sure. A small smile graces his thin lips, causing his slightly slanted eyes to wrinkle.

"It seems your fever has gone down considerably, child."

You quickly calm down and the tension in your shoulders drops. Savages or not, you respect the elders. Even more so when through the gap between the wooden wall and the cloth (you supposed it served as a doorway), you could catch glimpses of two warriors guarding the hut.

 

He steps away, going back to his former task near the fire and you sit up, rolling back the fur that had been put over you.

Your chest doesn't hurt anymore and a quick pat over your breasts indicates your doublet has vanished as well as the bandages you had done in the early morning. Your shirt has been partially opened and to your utter horror, red marks from the prolonged binding are visible across your chest and the underside of your breasts. You gently poke at them, wincing at the instant sting.

Someone else must have undressed you because you do not recall disrobing in the middle of unknown enemy territory, even less reveal your gender.

"You need not to worry, child. The squaws took care of you." A smile forms on his face while he leans over a green concoction. One, you dearly hope, he won't try feeding you.

He once more turns his back to you and whilst glad for the privacy, you are off put by his attitude. You may have nursed back to health one of their own but you are still an outsider. Why is he acting so kindly?

 

You throw a glance at the entrance of the house. Night is nearly ready to fall and its chill is beginning to settle. Despite the crackling of the fire, and the sound of herbs being crushed with a pestle, you can hear footsteps approaching and soft spoken words outside. The flap of the hut is pushed aside and a man enters.


	5. First glance

“She is awake." Kocoum states, sending a look at the demon, no human who is in the far corner of the hut, glaring daggers at him.

In a way, she is different, she is not like the other pale men. On the other hand, she remains a strange being, one who Grandmother Willow had allowed to stay at her side without threatening her.  
  
"She is, but there is no need to rush her. She is still weakened. ” Kekata says, also looking at the woman. “Namontack seems to be in good condition also, he should recover in no time."

He feels embarrassment for not pressing for his friend's health but Kekata seems to share his interest in the pale faced enough to not comment on it. “You must have a reason to have come here at such a late hour.”  
  
"The chief wishes to speak with you before supper."  
The medicine man nods before making his way to the doorway before turning to Kocoum a final time. "It seems the pale faced understands us."  
The words spoken by Kekata drift back to him as he gazes down at the white healer's form. Judging by your stance, you are still tired but in-submissive and defiant all the same. There is a glint in your eyes that screams rebellion.  
That was not a look he got on a regular basis, that was for sure.

Even before the war in the North, he had been known for his hunting and fishing skills. His looks as well as his fighting abilities also greatly helped him forge a reputation and soon, even in his youth he received muted looks of admiration and desire. He was imply used to appraisal and awe thrown his way.

The only one who had disregarded his qualities and pinned him with a disinterested stare had been none other than his betrothed, one of the numerous daughters of Wahunsenacawh. He had been sure his exploits in the war and the prospect of their union would have changed the way she looked at him, now he was doubting his previous thoughts and choices. Were the spirits trying to show him his true fate? And how was this… person involved in any of it?

His attention shifted back unto you when you put more distance between the two of you by scooting backwards. You hadn't gotten up, he noticed. “Are you tired?” Your eyes lift to his immediately but you remain silent. You do understand then.  
Your gaze moves to the spear in his hands and following your train of thought, he lowers it to the ground before rising his hands to appease you as he would an injured animal.  
And he had to remind himself, that no, the pale face isn't an animal, just a strange creature (and perhaps a human).  
"I mean no harm." He says, the pale face is quick to reply but to him, but only weird sounds stumble from her mouth as her glare grows in intensity. “You healed my friend, I have no reason to hurt you.” Despite the reassuring words, your body coils on itself in a defensive way.

He can instantly spot ten different ways he could attack you, successfully pin you down and go for the kill. He quickly wills away the thought. You are not an enemy right now and the proof that you are no warrior appeases him. You are not an immediate danger to anyone, apart from yourself, he saw the way you had no immediate awareness of your surroundings back in Grandmother Willow's clearing.

Again, harsh foreign words full of distrust are spoken and he almost sighs out of frustration.  
  
Culture clashes are often sited as a challenge for communication. He couldn't agree more.  
  
"I know you can understand our language.” You still, surprise plain to see on your features. “My name is Kocoum, healer." He introduces, taking a step towards your cowering form and lowering his hands to his sides,fingers spread. You visibly hesitate, before uttering a few syllables jumbled together, pointing to your chest.  
So far so good.

Despite the slight progress, you draw your knees under you, ready to bolt at any moment.  
  
He gazes at the blood on your strange and constricting looking clothing. The women had cleaned your skin as best as they could but couldn't go as far as to undress you, thus you still wore the rough cloth no matter how uncomfortable it felt. His eyes fell to your chest, ignoring the bare chest you didn't bother (or forgot) to cover up in order to examine the red marks layering your skin. They look painful and the skin is slightly swollen. Why would one do that to themselves?

Finally realizing where his eyes had settled upon, a pale hand comes to clamp shut your shirt to hide your chest from view. You must have grown in a modest environment, he muses when he sees your skin darken with blood. He brings his eyes back to your face, "Would you like to clean up? The supper is nearly ready but you should get out of those." He offers a hand, awaiting your answer wearily.  
  
You study his palm, gazing at the hardened callouses of his hand before raising your eyes to his face. His expression is literally bare, there is no mad glint in his dark eyes nor a ounce of malice on his full lips. He is simply stoic, however his scowl has softened a bit more since the last time you saw him.

It really does seem like he doesn't want to harm you this time around but despite his soft spoken words and reassuring nonsense, you are still doubting him. You may have helped one of their own - your gaze slides onto the fallen warrior on the other side of the hut - but Smith had warned the whole company about the cunning savages. Those who could offer you a hand to aid you and the next second use your scalp as a trophy.

And didn't Smith also tell not to wander alone so far away from the settlement?

Perhaps you should start listening to him. If you ever had the occasion of ever seeing him again…

  
The man must sense your unease since he repeats, urging you on with a movement of his hand. "I won't hurt you."

The hand not busy clamping shut your shirt clenches in the fur, he notices. Your inquiring eyes rake over his outstretched hand, before hardening in resolve. Your hand unwinds itself from the fur and comes to rest on your thigh, nervously twitching.  
  
Slowly, cautiously...  
  
You ignore the outstretched hand in favor of sloppily getting up before walking past the surprised Indian and exiting the hut.

  
"Beat it."


	6. Surprisingly not drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat it.

It has been hours since the search for the doctor had begun and the night had finally rolled in, concluding the fruitless search. John had only become aware of the disappearance near the afternoon when his (when did he start thinking about her as his?) indigenous princess had been called back to her village to the sound of beating drums.  
Unbeknownst to him, this sound marked the same time four warriors had been sent to fetch you also. You had left little to no trail as you made sure not to crush any wild flowers or herbs you had carefully registered in your tome, thus making it impossible even for him to track you down.

The Governor had declared you captured, lost or dead. Perhaps had you fallen prey to the Injus who had ambushed the settlement earlier or a feral animal you had gotten too close too. Nobody was found and you had been equipped with a rough map you had drawn of the shoreline and a compass. There was no way you could have gotten lost but dead or captive weren't reassuring either.

“As hefty as the good doctor is, he doesn't have to worry!”  
“He was pretty, a shame we lost him.”  
“Can't lose what wasn't yours from the get-go!”  
“We know Ratcliffe got busy alright.”

The laughs of the men nearly made him gag, after months of cohabitation, he couldn't figure how they only saw the doctor as nothing but a piece of ass. Good thing he had succeeded in keeping you away from all that as well as Thomas. He watched from a distance as another wall was erected along the swampy lands they had installed themselves in, the fort would hold, yes but could they compare to the extensive typology knowledge the natives possessed?  
“John,” Thomas said as he approached, “The other team just came back, they're empty handed.” The ginger let his grip grow flask on his musket, “Do you think he is… dead?”

Honestly? He had no clue.  
“I haven't the slightest idea Thomas. But he knows where the camp is, eventually he'll come back when he finds his way.”  
If the doctor was neither lost or dead, he could still consider being captured as an option. He wasn't there during the ambush but he was there to witness you perform surgery on the man squirming in the sand. If the Indians had been there, assessing their forces, they should have also been witnesses to your medical abilities. When they had ambushed, you must have already strayed away from camp and exposed yourself as an easy target.  
But why bother attacking an unknown enemy when they had no use of him? Pocahontas had explained to him early on that her people chose conflict as a last resort and didn't tend to take captives.

“Thomas.” He turns to the man who nods in a display of attention, “What happened during the ambush? Exactly.”  
The younger man shifts, gaze dropping to his musket, “After you left, Ratcliffe's mutt started barking and we caught sight of one of the savages.” He internally winces at the choice of words but Thomas doesn't notice and continues, “I made a fool of myself as usual but the Governor shot one down. Ben went in for the kill but on the injus fought him off. Then they ran away.”  
The new information makes everything fall into place but at Thomas' confused look, he decides not to share his thoughts.  
“What did you mean by 'making a fool of yourself'?” He grins, revealing pearly whites that causes his companion to frown.  
“I… I almost shot Ratcliffe.”

The laughing that ensues makes half the settlement stop in its tracks to watch a beet-red Thomas hurriedly swatting at Smith.  
Ratcliffe's booming voice cuts the atmosphere like a knife as he reprimands the two men into going back to work.

…

After your last attempt to get away, you had been rather firmly intercepted by the two men waiting outside and had chosen to diligently follow 'Kocoum' until he let down his guard and you found a way to get away.  
Thing is, he makes you walk in front of him and you can feel his eyes digging into your back. The night has already fallen when you are led to a pool of water. Torches light up the bank and with the wavering flames, you can distinguish the backs of two other warriors around the area.  
To the utter horror of one of the women brave enough to approach you, you vigorously insist on keeping your clothes despite the caked blood and mud. You think about your missing doublet but there is little to no chance they didn't get rid of it so you simply give up. The knife rests against your ankle and the light pressure makes you sweat, how are you going to conceal that one?  
They look on as you undo your laces, they seem absorbed in the complexity of the task. You succeed in pushing your knife down onto the sole and none of them notice as they are too busy examining the first boot.  
In a way, they remind you of innocent children and you remember this is what the Virginia Company is for in a way : educate the savages.  
Not that this is your business. You can leave that to Smith, he is more than able to spin any tales if he wishes to do so.

One of the women encouraged you to wash your hair and the gentleness of those people are really starting to trouble you. The muted gaze she receives in return must have made her think you didn't have enough energy to do it yourself because soon enough, her hands are pulling your locks out of your improvised braid and into the water.  
Are they being so kind because they plan on ending you soon? This can't be, you think, they'd want to keep you around if another one of them is on the other hand of a musket.  
One peculiar girl is stirred clear away from you when she gets close. 'Kocoum', the man with bear-like paws on his torso sends her away but she persists, watching you by looking past his hip. He had been mouthed off by the oldest of the women about staying around and at least he decided to turn around instead of leaving entirely.

The girl cannot be older than eleven, her eyes are alight with curiosity. She is wearing the same style of clothing as the other women but a blue necklace resting on her collarbones catches your eyes. The design is nothing spectacular but it bears such an exotic and unique look… They are really amazing artisans.  
She's beautiful, almond black eyes and long dark hair with copper skin. A woman who was previously fighting you over your clothes notices your questioning look and says, “This is Pocahontas, one of Wahunsenacawh's daughter.”  
Another woman tries to hush her but she pays her no mind when you finally relinquish your hold on your sullied shirt. “What could she do with that information anyway? Plus Pocahontas would get her way and talk to her even with half of the village against her. You know how the kid is.”

Indeed, the little girl is soon near the water, sitting on the bank and observing you. The childish scrutinizing is a bit off-putting but after walking through the village, you cannot bring yourself to care about another curious inju.  
“I thought only men came from over the ocean. How come you are here?”  
The question makes the women stop fussing over you for a bit but one with a round belly sucks her teeth, “She understands but doesn't speak our language.” Your hair is released and you try your best not to squirm when one of your cheek is pinched. “It is strange she would be the only one.”  
“Have you seen the marks on her breasts? She must have been concealing herself!” You do squirm when one gropes around your chest and another one chuckles at the sign of bashfulness.  
Pocahontas frowns, “She must be in pain, for how long did she endure this?”  
The last question is left unanswered but she sends you an inquiring look. She knows something or at least she is eager to talk to you, she squirms and her mouth pursues and opens but she decides at the last moment to stay silent.  
“Have you seen the men? They are pale and short.” A woman remarks, taking your hair in her hands once more to run a strange comb through it.  
“They even have hair on their faces like dogs!” Another joins in, regaining the bank and sitting down next to the princess, “Of course she wouldn't want one to touch her!”

They all laugh at the red tint your skin takes, how can they talk about sex and men so freely? How are they so shameless?  
“You are most unusual.” They perk up at the words and whisper between them and the girl stifles a laugh in her hands.

It is nice to know that someone at least is having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :P


	7. Dial it down a little bit

The people here wear fur. Their 'clothing' consist of animal skin sewn together with tendons and other parts of their preys. The thought of killing an animal and wearing its skin is first sickening then more and less fascinating as your natural curiosity kicks in.  
“Animal skin?”  
You can be intrigued and curious but that doesn't mean you will gladly step into the clothes one of the women thrusts in your arms. Instead of putting them on like she hoped, you trace the different textures of fur with the tips of your fingers. The dress – it looks like one anyways – is not long enough to cover you properly, you realize.  
If you were to put it on, the end could barely brush the top of your knees and you gawp at the miserable length. Only women short on dignity and of easy virtue would even fathom to appear in such an attire!

“Dear Lord.” You murmur. The ships of the Virginia Company had been huge enough to welcome hundreds of men but cramped when it came down to housing and -sadly- the sanitary 'facilities'. Sure, you had your personal cabin but shared it with the second doctor on the ship and the patients that would necessitate overnight treatment or thorough watching. Modesty and personal space had been lacking as well as hygiene and that meant that you had more or less gotten used to see half naked men wander around.  
That, however, didn't change the fact you were still a woman. 

There was no way you would risk revealing skin to the eyes of the entire crew, not only was it degrading but also dangerous. You had kept a close count how how many times a man had found clothes sullied with your blood or when someone had almost walked in on you without your chest bound. Whilst these incidents could be counted on your fingers, they were far too many for your liking, especially with all that happened on the way to Virginia.  
You knew what happened when Ratcliffe turned heels and rejoined his cabin; you were stationed in the center of the lower decks. Of course you would be confronted to the animosity the soldiers subjected themselves to. Away from the Crown and the governor's watchful eyes, men were utter beasts when forced to cohabit for four long and cold months without a woman in sight. Sodomy began a daily occurrence you had almost been forcefully dragged into the first weeks of the voyage.  
Now again, if Smith hadn't taken the youngest and 'key' members of the Company under his protection during the journey… You prefer not to think of the eventual outcomes.

“Why isn't she putting it on?” You send a glare to the back of a certain long haired savage -no, indigenous. His tone isn't demanding, just purely stoic and it grates on your nerves.  
“Does he even have emotions?”  
“Forget about him. He is an anomaly.” A woman takes the dress from you, slipping behind you to help you in it. “Arms, up.” As expected, the soft texture of the skin feels nice against your bruised chest. Evidently, the end of the dress barely caresses the end of your thighs and unease and bashfulness come to settle at the forefront of your mind.  
The night has fallen, it is dark and the torches can only do so much, the light of the flames flickers with the wind and her words are almost caught it in. Her hands are delicate on your shoulders whilst she leans in to your ear. “Don't worry, you will be fine.”

But how fine can a prisoner be?

You try to swallow down the thought to exploit it later when you aren't standing in front of the majority of the native village but only end up racking your brain. Small children are hiding behind the legs of their parents, sending swift looks filled with wonder whilst you advance. The adults are more forward with their scrutinizing, they openly stare, at some point, one reaches out to touch your skin and a few more follow his example.  
“Do you think it bleeds?”  
“They're not a 'it'.”  
“She seems harmless enough.”  
“Her skin feels normal, it's warm too.”  
“Mama, why is she dressed like us?”  
“You wouldn't think she carries diseases?”

Ignoring the voices and intruding touches seem like the best thing to do but the most unfeasible one nonetheless. Your escort pays them no heed, only sending a neutral look over his shoulder when you lag behind.  
Yes, he is a good distraction; his solemn look unnerves you, his persona screams of contained emotions. From what you gathered earlier, he is a warrior and a sort of war hero. It is true he looks capable and your past experience with his fist certainly confirms it.  
Again, the slight pressure of your blade against your ankle makes you less tense in a faux sense of security. You may not be a tall soldier with bear paws on your chest but you can hold your own just fine.  
You entertain the thought – more like dream – of being able to rival with any kind of warrior whilst you walk up to the center of the village. A larger hut is sitting in the midst and lo and behold, the chief who had almost slit your throat earlier this afternoon stands tall at the front. He is leaning towards the old man from before, both discussing in hushed tones. The 'braves' you heard about earlier are split in multiple groups, they also have paint on their arms or legs. Wait… Are those into their skin?   
With a gentle shove or a light tap on your skin as a sign of departure, the women behind you scatter to rejoin their family. You are left alone with the only familiar face standing in front of you.  
Now you wonder if this man is not leading you to your execution, perhaps their gentleness and previous grooming are the first steps leading to a bloody massacre.

“Lord, watch over me.” You pray under your breath. Some people turn at your strange words, slightly slanted eyes alight with curiosity whilst their features scrunch up at the 'round words'. Kocoum keeps walking and you reluctantly follow. You bite the inside of your mouth as fear finally settles in your throat and freezes your insides.  
The final words of the nuns come back to you, it is almost as if they are standing next to you. You would swear you can hear their grave voices as they wish you good fortune.  
With all the passing out you have done in the last hours, you could have damaged something. Not to forget the time when the man had knocked you out with a well aimed punch to the back of your head or when he had forcefully restrained your breathing on the cold hard ground.  
That would perhaps explain you started understanding an entire language you had never heard in your entire life nor knew of its existence before.

“Mary, guide my soul to you.”

They gaze at you in perplexed wonder and you lower your head in powerlessness. Is praying even worth the effort? Neither the Holy Mother or God seemed interested in helping you when you were held down by your uncle all those years ago.  
When your little party reaches the center where the Powhatan chief stands, you are left in front of him and this time you get to stay upright as he speaks.  
The instant his hands raise up and mouth just slightly opens, the entire village goes silent, all attention going to the chief. A typical scene in your King's court, you muse.

“As I said before, these white men are dangerous. Despite this one's best efforts to excuse her people's actions, they remain guilty of threatening our own.”

You wonder how you will be put to rest. Will they impale you? Behead you? Perhaps even hang you? Are they cannibals? Will they feast-

“They have wounded us deep in our hearts but we shall forgive this individual and welcome her into our ranks and treat her as our own at least until this conflict reaches an end.”

Finally, your thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Heavy hands just as calloused as any of the warriors settle on your shoulders and aged and wise eyes come down to look into yours. The crowd lurches back in a buzz of disagreement, intrigue and questioning. They still watch on as the man addresses you directly.

“You are welcome here now, my child.”

“Child?”


End file.
